We love big.

Big vacations. Big opportunities. Biggie fries, because apparently regular fries just don’t communicate enough commitment.

We tend to associate “big” with better, exciting, important, or worth talking about.

And we do it spiritually too.

Big prayers. Big faith. Big miracles. Big moves of God.

We pray for God to do something so undeniable that there will be no question it was Him. We preach about breakthrough and believe for doors to swing open, mountains to move, situations to turn around, and prayers to be answered in ways we could never manufacture on our own.

And I believe we should. Oh! How I believe we should!

To be VERY clear, I don’t think we need smaller faith or smaller prayers.

But, admittedly, I’ve been wondering if sometimes our definition of “big” gets in the way of recognizing what God is actually doing.

Which is funny, because in almost every other part of life, we have a strange affection for small things. Tiny shoes are adorable. Tiny hands stop us in our tracks. Give us a miniature version of almost anything and suddenly we want to look closer.

We know how to appreciate small. Until we’re waiting on God.

Because when I pray for a big thing, I usually have some idea of what that big thing should look like. I may not have every detail worked out, but I know what would feel significant enough to count. I know what kind of answer would make me stop and say, “There it is. God did it.”

Then instead of something dramatic, God gives me a conversation. A little provision. One open door or an unexpected connection. There is a small change, or perhaps just a little more clarity than I had yesterday.

And because none of those things look big enough on their own, it can be easy to keep waiting for the answer while standing right in the middle of it.

Unintentionally we can equate small with insignificant. But, the reality is, something small could just be a piece to something grand.

Zechariah asks, “For who hath despised the day of small things?” (Zechariah 4:10).

I don’t think that means we stop believing for the big thing. I think it means we learn not to overlook the pieces God may be using to build it.

Sometimes the big thing isn’t one giant moment. Sometimes it is a hundred little things that only look big once you can finally see how they all fit together.

this is where it gets a little uncomfortable for me.

Because adjusting my perspective can sometimes feel suspiciously close to lowering my expectations.

If I prayed for something big and then start noticing smaller answers, part of me wonders if I am just trying to make myself feel better. Am I settling or explaining away an unanswered prayer? Am I calling something “God” simply because the thing I really wanted hasn’t happened yet?

That can feel like a lack of faith.

And if I am being truthful, some of that pressure has not always come from my own imagination.

I made a comment to a friend recently that I felt like I had to recover from all the BIG prophecies and EXTRAORDINARY things people had told me were going to happen in my life so that I could simply walk with God.

I don’t mean that in a cynical way. I still believe God speaks, and I still believe He can do extraordinary things with an ordinary life. And he’s done those things in my life. But somewhere along the way, I had collected so many expectations about what a significant life for God was supposed to look like that I needed to lay them down and let Him decide.

I needed to stop measuring my obedience against somebody else’s description of my future.

There is a strange pressure that can come from always expecting your life to become something spectacular. Ordinary faithfulness can begin to feel like a holding pattern. Quiet seasons can make you wonder whether you missed the moment. You can become so focused on what is supposed to happen someday that you fail to recognize what God is asking of you now.

Walking with God does not require me to constantly identify the “big thing.” It requires me to stay close enough to Him to obey the next thing.

Sometimes that next thing feels important. Other times it feels painfully ordinary. But the ordinary parts are not necessarily interruptions to the calling. It’s just where much of the calling is actually lived.

The conversations matter. The people in front of me matter. The small opportunities to serve matter. The things no one applauds or prophesies about may be carrying more Kingdom weight than I realize.

The meaning Matthew 5:8 has started to expand for me. (Scripture has a way of coming to life… the Living Word of God.)

“Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.”

A pure heart wants God more than it wants God to follow the plan we had in mind. Part of spiritual maturity is learning to see Him without needing everything around Him to look dramatic.

That does not mean we stop believing for miracles. It means we stop requiring spectacle as proof that He is present.

Sometimes seeing God looks like recognizing His hand in the thing that would have seemed too small to mention a year ago. It is realizing a door opened just enough for the next step. Sometimes it is only in looking back that we realize what felt like a string of unrelated moments was actually God moving us somewhere.

And that stretches faith.

Faith sure is easy to name when the answer is obvious. It is harder when you have to trust God in the middle of something that still looks ordinary.

If I am only looking for the version of God’s answer I already decided would be big enough, I may miss the way He is actually working. But if I want Him more than I want my preferred version of the story, I become less concerned with whether the moment looks impressive and more able to recognize that He is in it.

The goal is not to convince myself that small things are big. It’s to see God clearly enough that I stop deciding the value of every moment.

If you know me, you know one of my favorite accounts in Scripture is that of Joseph.

We know his story from the advantage of having the whole thing in front of us. We know about the dreams, the pit, Potiphar’s house, the prison, Pharaoh, and eventually the moment when Joseph realizes God has positioned him to preserve his family through famine.

From where we sit, it is easy to point to the whole story and call it extraordinary.

Joseph didn’t get to live it that way.

He lived one piece at a time without knowing how the next one would connect. Being sold into Egypt certainly did not look like progress toward the dream. Neither did being falsely accused and thrown into prison. Even after he interpreted the cupbearer’s dream correctly, Joseph was forgotten for two more years.

And yet God was still working.

The prison introduced Joseph to the cupbearer. The forgotten conversation eventually became the connection that brought Joseph before Pharaoh. The ability Joseph had been using quietly, in places that probably felt completely disconnected from the promise, became part of how God opened the next door.

We call the finished story a miracle.

Joseph had to live in the pieces by faith.

I wonder how many things in our own lives would look completely different if we could see them from the end instead of from the middle.

The thing that feels insignificant today may eventually make sense beside something God has not done yet. A relationship that seems ordinary may become important later. What looks like a detour may turn out to have placed us exactly where we needed to be.

Now, I’m not every small thing has to carry some hidden, enormous meaning. I don’t think we need to spend our lives trying to assign prophetic meaning to everything that happens.

But I also don’t want to become so committed to the idea of a BIG move of God that I overlook the quiet ways He is already leading me toward His purposes.

Faith is learning to say, even before the pieces make sense, “I don’t know what this is becoming yet, but I know Who I am walking with.”

I still want to pray big prayers and believe God for things that are beyond me, things only He can do. I do not want to become so cautious that I stop expecting Him to move. But I also want to leave room for Him to answer in His own way.

If I ask God to do something big, I have to be willing to let Him define what “big” means. It may come suddenly. It may be unmistakable. It may be the kind of answer that leaves no doubt at all. Or it may be built through a series of small obedient steps, quiet provisions, unexpected people, closed or open doors, and ordinary days that do not look extraordinary while I am living them.

That does not make the answer smaller. But, it changes the way I see it.

And, wow, has my faith had to grow. Not away from believing God can do extraordinary things, but away from needing extraordinary to look a certain way.

I do not want to spend my life waiting for the moment that finally feels big enough to count while missing the work of God happening right in front of me. I want a heart pure enough to see Him. I want to walk closely enough with Him that I can recognize His hand without needing everything around it to be spectacular.

And if one day I look back and realize that all those little things were actually the BIG thing I had been praying for all along, I hope I will have had enough faith to appreciate them while they were still small.

Barefoot,
Lindsay

P.S. If you pray for young people, encourage them, or speak into their lives, please keep praying BIG prayers over them.

Tell them God can use them. Remind them that their lives matter to the Kingdom. Encourage every gift you see growing in them.

But leave room for God to define what that life will look like.

Sometimes, without meaning to, we can place the weight of an extraordinary future on young shoulders. They can grow up believing that faithfulness only counts if it eventually becomes something visible, impressive, or widely recognized.

Let’s remind them that walking with God is already a beautiful calling.

Teach them to recognize His voice, obey Him in the ordinary, love the people in front of them, and trust Him with whatever comes next.

Pray big over them, absolutely.

Just make sure they know they don’t have to become “big” to be deeply used by God.

If it’s ok, I’m going to write out some thoughts that may not be nearly as cohesive as I normally try to make them. But I need to reconcile some things, and I need a sounding board. If that scares you, feel free to stop reading without offense to me. I mean, I’ll never know, will I?

I recently observed a situation, and it’s left me with a question. Several, really.

In short, from this observation deck of mine, I’ve watched one person try to hold things together quietly while another seemed determined to be right, be heard, avoid consequences, or simply survive the next moment.

And in the middle of it all, there were casualties.

Innocents being wounded… deeply.

I’ve watched, and even held, the wounded. I’ve encouraged them with the truth that God is FOR them and proclaimed hope over them, all while watching the other side of the conflict reach for the same language.

It broke my brain for a while.

I couldn’t seem to reconcile how two people could stand on opposite sides of the same situation and both believe God was for them. If God was for one side, how could He be for the other? How in the world could God be for both?

I do want to say this carefully: I have tried to see both sides. I’ve tried to be rational. I’ve tried to remember that people are more than their worst decisions.

But there is still such a thing as wrong. There are still patterns that wound people. There are still choices that leave damage behind.

And that is where my heart felt pulled in two directions.

One part of me wanted swift justice.

The other part of me hoped, deeply, that the one causing the damage would find a way out of the cycle that was destroying them and hurting others in the process.

Now to the question that broke my brain… How can God be for both sides?

I went to the Word of God to try to reconcile what I couldn’t on my own… should probably start there anyway, huh? I mean, it’s the only truth that matters. My thoughts, opinions, or feelings have no eternal weight.

If God is for us… who can be against us?
—Romans 8:31

This verse… goodness… it’s the kind you hold onto. It comforts you. Quiets you. steadies you.

But candidly, I’ve always just assumed that this meant God chose sides. And this situation I’ve been observing has made me question my initial understanding of this verse. So, I went back and read it in context. Not just the line, but the whole of Romans 8. And what I found is that this isn’t a blanket statement over every decision we make. It’s not God signing off on whatever we choose and calling it covered.

In Romans 8, Paul is talking about life in the Spirit.

He contrasts two ways of living:

• life led by the flesh
• life led by the Spirit

He talks about surrender. About putting to death what pulls us away from God. About being formed into the image of Christ.

And then, in that context, he says:

If God is for us… who can be against us?

This isn’t about God backing our choices.

It’s about God securing our position in Him.

It’s the assurance that nothing can stand against what He is doing in a life that belongs to Him.

Sometimes we take a true statement and stretch it beyond what it was meant to hold.

“God is for me” can quietly turn into:

• God agrees with me
• God approves of this
• God will cover this

But those aren’t the same thing.

God being for us does not mean He affirms everything we do. In fact, sometimes the clearest evidence that God is for us is that He refuses to leave us where we are.

And this isn’t new. Throughout Scripture, we see it.

Eve was created by God, known by Him, and walked with Him. God was for her from the beginning. And yet, when she stepped outside of what He had said, that same relationship didn’t erase the consequence. God didn’t abandon her, but He also didn’t pretend it didn’t matter.

David is called a man after God’s own heart. If anyone could say, “God is for me,” it would be him. But when David chose sin, serious, undeniable sin, God didn’t protect his actions. He sent Nathan to confront him. What was hidden was exposed. What was done had weight. God’s love didn’t look like approval; it looked like truth.

And then there’s the woman caught in adultery in John 8. Brought forward in her worst moment, with no defense left. Jesus steps in and protects her from condemnation. He doesn’t let the crowd destroy her. But He also doesn’t call her sin something else.

“Go, and sin no more.”
—John 8:11

Mercy and truth, side by side.

God’s posture toward people is consistent. He is for us. But the way that shows up isn’t always the same.

For the one walking with Him:

• His presence brings peace
• His Spirit brings clarity
• His nearness feels like covering

For the one stepping outside of His ways:

• His Spirit brings conviction
• His truth brings exposure
• His love presses toward repentance

Both are expressions of the same heart. But they don’t feel the same.

It’s possible for two people to both say, “God is for me.” And in one sense, that’s true. But God being for someone doesn’t always look like support. Sometimes it looks like resistance. Because He’s not just for us in comfort. He’s for us in truth. And truth doesn’t bend to protect what’s harming us or others.

The promise of Romans 8:31 hasn’t lost its weight for me. If anything, it’s become more beautiful.

God is for us. Yes. Bottom line. But not in a way that excuses everything. Rather, in a way that is relentlessly committed to our redemption.

So, here I am reconciling my thoughts on the verse.

God doesn’t have to choose between the people He loves. When two people stand on opposite sides of pain, He isn’t forced to take sides the way we feel we need to. He’s a really cool and incredibly big God. He can bind up the brokenhearted while calling the wandering heart home. He can comfort the broken while confronting the one who broke them. And He can defend truth without abandoning mercy.

His heart is always moving toward redemption.

That doesn’t mean every relationship will be restored to its original state. Scripture never promises that. Some wounds have lasting consequences, just as David’s did. But wherever there is repentance, there is hope. And wherever there is brokenness, there is a God who is near.

Maybe that’s what Paul is wanting us to see… “If God is for us” isn’t permission to keep living as we please. It’s the confidence that the God who gave Himself is completely committed to finishing the work of redemption in everyone who will surrender to Him.

He is always for whatever brings us closer to Him. Sometimes that feels like comfort. Sometimes it feels like conviction. But I know this: it is always love.

I’ve been reading Ecclesiastes. Not studying it in a structured way, just sitting with it and it with me. If I’m honest, it’s been unsettling.

“Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher… all is vanity” (Ecclesiastes 1:2).

I used to read that and hear something poetic, something reflective. It felt meaningful, but distant. Well, lately, it doesn’t feel poetic.

It feels real.

Something has shifted, and I can’t point to one single moment that caused it. It’s more like a series of small realizations that keep stacking up. Things are changing faster than I expected. Moments I assumed would last are moving on. Some things are unfolding in ways I wouldn’t have chosen.

And here I am, noticing one of my favorite Scriptures in a different way.

“He has made everything beautiful in its time… yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end” (Ecclesiastes 3:11).

It’s like I can feel both parts of that at once. There is beauty, and there is also the reality of not understanding.

I think that’s why this moment caught me the way it did.

The other day, Lilli was outside chasing bubbles. She was completely locked in, running after them, reaching, laughing every time one drifted just out of reach. When she caught one, it disappeared instantly, and she didn’t stop or question it. She just kept going. I sat there watching her, and for a moment, everything slowed down. The bubbles floated for a second, caught the light, and then they were gone.

Scripture says we are a breath, here for a moment and gone just as quickly (Psalm 39:5). While bubbles were flying by and bursting, that verse it didn’t feel like a distant, poetic stanza.

It felt like revelation.

I know I’ve not always lived with that kind of awareness. I tend to assume there will be more time, more chances, more opportunities to say what needs to be said or do what should be done. But Ecclesiastes doesn’t leave much room for that kind of thinking.

“What does man gain by all the toil at which he toils under the sun?” (Ecclesiastes 1:3).

The truth is, there are things I cannot hold onto. I can’t slow time down. I can’t keep everything as it is. I can’t control how quickly things change. And if I sit in that too long, it can feel overwhelming… and not in a beautiful, reflective way… but in a way that takes your breath a little.

But Scripture doesn’t stop at naming the weight of it. It also gives direction for how to live within it.

“So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom” (Psalm 90:12).

Not to control our days or extend them, but to recognize them for what they are.

I’m not sure what to do with that yet. I just know I can feel it, and I can’t ignore it like I used to.

You know, Lilli doesn’t chase bubbles because they last. She chases them because they’re there. And maybe there’s something in that.

(I’m not talking about chasing everything. Scripture gives us guardrails for that.)

I’m talking about life.

And Life is a vapor. Not in theory. In reality.

Here…and then gone.

I may not be able to hold onto the moments in front of me.
But my times are in His hands… (Psalm 31:15)
and I can hold onto that.

Here I am, in the middle of Ecclesiastes, hearing that it’s all vanity…
Still on holy ground.

Still barefoot.

Lindsay

There are days when I feel completely settled in my life. I walk into a room, whatever room it may be, confident I’m standing where I’m supposed to be. I know why I’m there and I’m not trying to prove anything to anyone.

On those days, I feel completely in place.

But, then there are other days.

Sometimes in those same rooms, something shifts internally. I become more aware of myself than the conversation. This hypersensitivity activates, and it’s almost like I relive the moments in slow motion just seconds after they pass. I read into the faces of others. I replay their reactions. I wonder if I misread the tone, overstated a point, or missed something subtle. Nothing obvious has changed, but I leave unsettled.

I used to think that unsettled feeling meant something was wrong. With me. That I didn’t belong.

But over time, I’ve realized that feeling rarely tells the truth. Sometimes the problem wasn’t the room, but the narrative I built about it.

Admittedly, I didn’t come to that realization on my own.

Years ago, during a season that shaped me more than I understood at the time, I worked alongside my friend Jeannie in prison ministry and in a recovery community. We taught the women structured tools to examine their thinking.

At the time, I thought I was helping them untangle distorted thinking. I didn’t realize how often I would need those same tools myself.

Over time, those worksheets stopped being something I handed out and started becoming something I practiced.

One of the first exercises we walked through was called an Attitude Check.

We asked the women to complete one anytime they felt uncomfortable, angry, sad, defensive, anxious, or when their emotions began to rise. Between our visits, they were required to turn in at least one per day.

It wasn’t optional reflection. It was practice.

The point wasn’t to suppress emotion. It was to slow it down long enough to examine it.

Each worksheet centered around eight core attitudes: gratitude, objectivity, caring, humility, open-mindedness, willingness, responsibility, and honesty.

When something felt off, we didn’t start with what someone else had done. We asked which attitude might be slipping.

I still ask myself that question.

When I leave a room unsettled, it’s difficult not to question my calling, my value, or my place. However, I have to stop and ask which attitude needs attention..

Am I losing objectivity and personalizing neutral reactions?
Has humility quietly turned into insecurity?
Am I taking responsibility for my internal response, or expecting someone else’s affirmation to steady me?

So, the Attitude Check helps slow the emotion down. The next worksheet we gave the ladies, was the Rational Self-Analysis. It is what helps untangle the emotion.

We had them write out the Activating Event, what actually happened. Not the interpretation. Just the observable facts.

Almost like replaying the moment from a camera.

Then the Beliefs about the moment… You know, what they were telling themselves about what happened.

And finally, the Consequences, how those beliefs were shaping their emotions and behavior.

That alone exposed how quickly a moment could turn into a narrative.

But we didn’t stop there.

We asked them to separate facts from assumptions. To challenge their thinking. To decide how they wanted to respond if they were thinking clearly instead of reacting emotionally.

I still walk through that framework.

When I leave a room feeling unsettled, I choose to pause.

What actually happened?

What story am I building around it?

Am I assuming intent? Filling in gaps? Assigning meaning that wasn’t stated?

And then the harder question:

If I strip it down to facts, how do I want to respond?

Most of the time, nothing dramatic occurred. A conversation ended. A response was brief. A face was neutral.

The shift happened inside me.

Rational Self-Analysis does not invalidate emotion. It refines it. It brings it under examination instead of letting it lead unchecked.

And the more I have practiced it, the more I have realized this is not just a recovery tool. It is a spiritual discipline.

Scripture is not passive about our thought life.

2 Corinthians 10:5 tells us to take every thought captive and make it obedient to Christ.

Every thought.

Not just the dramatic ones. The subtle ones. The quick assumptions. The narratives we build in the quiet after a conversation ends.

Romans 12:3 calls us to think of ourselves with sober judgment. Not inflated. Not diminished. Sober.

Philippians 4:8 instructs us to dwell on what is true.

Not what feels loud or what insecurity might suggest.
What is true.

And Colossians 3:3 reminds me that my life is hidden with Christ in God.

If that’s true, then my belonging is secure before I ever walk into any room.

Which means an unsettled feeling may get my attention, but it does not get authority.

There was a stretch recently when I realized I had quietly stopped practicing what I once taught. Nothing dramatic had happened. No public failure. No obvious rejection.

But internally, I was drifting… Life has a way of making your mind cluttered and tired. And when you’re tired, intentionality with your thought life can take a back seat. The default modes start resurfacing.

I started leaning into familiar lies. That I didn’t belong where I was. That I wasn’t good enough for the room. Or maybe worse, that everyone else was thinking it too.

I could feel myself getting close to spiraling. Not outwardly. Inwardly.

I wasn’t taking those thoughts captive. I was letting them sit unchecked. And unchecked thoughts rarely stay small.

That is when I had to dust off the tools. I had to interrupt the pattern.

It is surprisingly easy to move away from disciplined thinking if you are not intentional about practicing it. Growth does not mean immunity and maturity does not mean maintenance is no longer required.

2 Corinthians 10:5 says we take every thought captive and make it obedient to Christ.

Every thought.

When I returned to taking my thoughts captive, I realized nothing about where I stood had changed.

I had just given too much space to the wrong narrative.

The truth is, when I walk into a room, whatever room it may be, I still experience both versions of myself. The steady one… and the “creative” one. You know, the one that can build an entire internal documentary out of a two-second facial expression.

But when that unsettled feeling rises, I can’t immediately assume I am out of place.

And neither should you.

So let me slow this down and walk through the steps again.

Because if we’re not careful, our minds can reach a conclusion before we’ve even gathered the facts.

• Pause before you decide what the moment meant.

• Check your attitude before blaming the room.

• Separate facts from assumptions.

• Take the thought captive before it takes hold of you.

And if you find your emotions taking off and you’ve already written a best-selling novel in your head before you’ve taken the thought captive, go back to the camera check.

Ask yourself what actually happened.

Not what you felt happened. Not what you assumed happened. What actually happened.

Recognize the narrative you built in those seconds and notice how quickly it shaped your emotions and what you began to believe was true.

Then slow down long enough to examine it.

Because sometimes the room hasn’t changed.

The facts haven’t changed.

The only thing that changed was the story you started telling yourself.

Barefoot,
Lindsay

Subscribe now

Share

Lately, I’ve noticed something about myself.

When I feel drawn to do something, I don’t want to inch my way there. I want to do it. I want to step into it and get started.

That’s true whether it’s something creative, like painting or working with clay, or something heavier, like the book I’m trying to write. There’s something the Lord placed in me. I know that. But learning how to do it well has been more frustrating than I expected.

Not because I don’t want to learn, but because learning feels like it slows down the obedience. The message feels alive inside me, and the process keeps asking me to wait.

A few years ago, I convinced myself I could make a coffee mug.

I bought air-dry clay and fully believed I’d shape it, let it dry overnight, and wake up the next morning holding something simple and usable.

Instead, I created what looked like a very sad ashtray. I’m still not sure what I thought was going to happen, but confidence was clearly doing the heavy lifting that day.

It was uneven and misshapen. The handle had no business being attached to anything. I remember staring at it and thinking, how did I think this was going to work?

In hindsight, I had absolutely no plan. Just vibes.

That’s often how the middle feels to me. Awkward. Unfinished. And nowhere near what I imagined.

Interestingly enough, I notice something similar in Kaleb.

He has this growing desire to understand Scripture, not just to quote it, but to rightly divide it. It usually shows up in our conversations, where we’ll talk things through and sometimes circle the same thoughts more than once. Somehow, we usually end up learning together.

Sometimes after a lot of talking.
Sometimes after realizing we’ve been saying the same thing in two different ways.

What I notice most is his desire to be equipped now. He wants to understand deeply so that when the opportunity comes, he’s ready. Not because he’s in a hurry, but because he cares about handling something important well.

Friends, wanting to be ready doesn’t make waiting, working, or learning any easier.

We both want to get to the place where what we’re carrying can actually be used, and the process in between still feels long.

You know, Kaleb has this natural ability to meet Lilli right where she is and teach her something new with so much patience. I find myself a little jealous of that gift sometimes, not because I doubt my own, but because it comes so naturally to him.

That’s how I know he’ll be a good teacher one day. Not because he has all the answers already, but because he knows how to sit with someone while they’re learning, even while he’s still learning to be as patient with himself as he is with others.

I do wish the pressure felt lighter for him, and I still wish the middle felt shorter for me.

Or at least came with a clearer timeline.
Or a progress bar.

Maybe that’s just the place we’re both standing right now. Between what we sense God has placed inside us and the slow work of becoming ready to carry it well.

I want things to be done. He wants to be prepared. And somewhere in the middle of both of those desires, we’re learning that growth just doesn’t move on our timeline.

What we bring into the finished work matters just as much as the work itself. In fact, it may be what sustains it.

I still want to get to the other side of it all. I’m just learning that there’s something happening here too.

Barefoot,
Lindsay

Apparently, that means I’m doing real grown-up life — marriage, motherhood, responsibility and all.

The kind of life that looks very grown-up on paper.

But every time she says it, I think the same thing:

In my head, I’m still just a kid trying to figure it all out.

Not in a cute way, either. Just in the very real sense that I’m learning as I go.
Making decisions I never imagined making (and if I did, imagination proved much easier than reality). And learning how to hold responsibilities that still feel heavy some days.

And every now and then, thoughts slip in:

What if I’m not actually equipped for this?
What if I’m just doing my best and hoping no one notices how unsure I feel?

That’s when it starts to feel like I’m an imposter.

We don’t talk about that feeling very often — but many of us carry it.

The sense that we’re still learning while life keeps asking more of us.
That everyone else seems steadier. More confident. More certain.

We’ve given it a name now: Imposter syndrome.

It’s a term often used to describe the internal doubt that makes capable people question whether they belong or deserve the space they’re in.

Which, translated in my life, usually means standing in a life you prayed for, while still feeling unsure you’re ready for it.

I’d naturally assume this to be insecurity, but the more I think and pray about it…
what I’d like to call insecurity may actually be comparison.

When comparison quietly shifts the focus

Comparison rarely storms in loudly. In my experience, it usually slips in unnoticed.

It shows up when we scroll a little too long.
When we watch someone else navigate a similar season — but with more clarity, more confidence, more words.

And suddenly, what once felt like obedience begins to feel like doubt.

Scripture speaks plainly about this:

“When they measure themselves by one another and compare themselves with one another, they are not wise.”
— 2 Corinthians 10:12

Comparison changes the question.

Instead of asking, What is God asking of me right now?
we begin asking, Why don’t I look like them while doing it?

And slowly, our confidence shifts from calling to comparison.

That’s where the feeling of being an imposter takes root.

The quiet fear beneath it all

At the heart of imposter syndrome is a subtle fear:

Maybe I don’t actually belong here.

That thought can creep in when responsibility grows. When motherhood stretches us. When obedience costs more than we expected.

It can feel like maybe God misjudged our capacity.

But Scripture gently reminds us otherwise:

“For the gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable.”
— Romans 11:29

God does not accidentally assign people. He does not confuse names.

He does not change His mind once life gets complicated.

Feeling unsure does not mean you were chosen in error.

It usually means you’re growing.

The Bible is full of people who felt the same way

When I read Scripture, I don’t see people who felt ready.

I see Moses asking, Who am I to go?
Gideon calling himself the least.
Jeremiah insisting he was too young.
Paul openly admitting weakness.

God didn’t respond by convincing them they were impressive.

He simply promised His presence.

I will be with you.

That’s the pattern again and again.

God’s confidence in us has never been rooted in our ability, but in His faithfulness.

Carrying a weight that was never ours

Paul writes something that feels especially kind:

“Let each one test his own work… and not compare himself with someone else. For each will have to carry his own load.”
— Galatians 6:4–5

Everyone is carrying something different.

Different assignments.
Different timing.
Different capacity.
Different seasons.

Comparison convinces us to carry weights God never handed us.

And when we do, we feel behind… even when we’re exactly where we’re meant to be.

You’re not pretending

I’m discovering that the feeling of being an imposter often shows up when growth is happening.

When God stretches us, our comfort disappears before our confidence catches up.

But Scripture offers this steady reassurance… and it’s probably one of my most favorite verses…

“He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion.”
— Philippians 1:6

The same friend who jokes that I’m an adult adult also offered this quiet reminder —
that God knows who we are, where we are, and where we need to get to.

Even when we feel unsure or still learning, He isn’t. He’s present with us every step of the way.

You’re not pretending your way through life. You’re learning. You’re growing. You’re being formed.

And the same is true for me.

Even when we still feel like kids inside.

Absolutely Barefoot,
Lindsay

Boundaries aren’t something we set once and move on from.
They shift as seasons change. As capacity expands or contracts. As relationships grow, strain, or heal.

For that reason, I wanted this final part of the series to be less teachy and more of a resource. A tool to help you discover, set, and adjust boundaries in ways that are healthy and healing in your life.

Self-Awareness: Knowing Where You Actually Are

Firstly, it helps to get honest about where we actually are.

Not where we wish we were. Not where we think we should be. But where we are right now.

Our emotional state matters more than we often realize. When we’re tired, grieving, overwhelmed, or stretched thin, everything feels heavier. Even good requests can feel like too much.

That doesn’t make us unspiritual or weak. It makes us human.

Sometimes what we’re reacting to isn’t the situation in front of us, but rather the feeling underneath it.

Am I responding out of exhaustion? Out of fear? Out of hurt that hasn’t been named yet?

Self-awareness slows us down long enough to notice the root emotion before we draw a line or make a decision. Because boundaries formed in unprocessed emotion tend to swing too far… either too rigid or too loose.

Capacity matters too.

We all have limits — emotional, physical, relational, spiritual — and those limits change with seasons. What you can carry in one chapter of life may not be what you can carry in another.

Recognizing that isn’t weakness. It’s stewardship.

A Helpful Filter: Concentric Circles

A friend of mine, Tristan, once shared the idea of concentric circles with me, and it’s been a helpful filter as I think through boundaries and capacity. Maybe you’ll find it useful, too.

(Tristan has a lot of incredible insights. I highly recommend his substack…Tristan's Tidbits)

At the center are the responsibilities God has clearly entrusted to me — my relationship with Him, my marriage, my child, my home.

From there, the circles widen: family, close friendships, church community, work, and extended relationships.

As the circles move outward, my responsibility doesn’t disappear, but the level of access and expectation naturally changes. Not everything belongs in the center. And when everything is treated like it does, something essential eventually suffers.

This framework doesn’t tell me what to care about.

It helps me understand how to care without overextending myself or neglecting what God has already placed in my hands.

Discovering Your Current Boundaries

Next, it helps to pause and recognize what boundaries currently exist in your life.

Some are intentional. Others have formed quietly over time.

You might ask yourself:

• Where do I feel consistently drained or resentful?

• Where do I say yes outwardly but feel resistance inwardly?

• Which relationships feel life-giving? Which feel heavy?

These questions aren’t meant to produce guilt. They’re meant to offer information and reveal that our emotions often point to places that need clarity.

What Are Your Boundaries Made Of?

As you begin to notice what boundaries exist, it may help to ask a different question:

What are they actually made of? Are they thick and rigid, more like solid walls that prevent movement or conversation? Are they fluid, shifting with emotion or the day you’re having? Or do they have areas of perforation where they are structured, but breathable?

Perforated boundaries aren’t wide open, and they aren’t sealed shut. They allow movement where trust, clarity and relationships invite it, while still providing definition and protection where needed.

They aren’t governed by mood or pressure. They’re guided by discernment.

Sometimes a boundary needs firmness for a season. Other times, it needs flexibility.

Healthy boundaries often live in that middle place… not rigid, not reactive, but responsive.

You don’t have to answer those questions quickly.

Noticing is enough for now.

Discernment: What Is Mine to Carry?

Once we begin to notice where our boundaries sit and how they function, the next question naturally follows: what is actually mine to carry, and what isn’t?

Scripture gives language to help us figure this out

“Carry each other’s burdens…” (Galatians 6:2)
“Each one should carry their own load.” (Galatians 6:5)

A helpful question to return to…

Is this a burden I’m meant to help carry or a responsibility God assigned to someone else?

You might consider:

• Is this temporary or ongoing?

• Am I being invited into this or assuming responsibility?

• Does stepping in encourage growth, or prevent it?

• Is God asking me to support or to step back?

Clarifying and Practicing Boundaries

As awareness grows, clarity can come.

Healthy boundaries are usually quieter than we expect.

They may look like limits around time or emotional availability, slower responses instead of immediate yeses, honest conversations instead of silent endurance, or rest taken without apology.

They don’t need to be harsh or loud to be real…They just need to be honest.

Putting boundaries into practice is often the hardest part. Not because we don’t know what to say, but because we don’t know how it will be received.

Practically speaking, it sounds like:

“I need time to think about this.”
“I care about you, but I don’t have the capacity for that right now.”
“I want to be honest instead of overcommitting.”

It may feel uncomfortable in the moment, but ultimately it will be worth it.

A Final Pause

As you continue working through boundaries it’s worth sitting with one honest question…

Is this boundary helping me live honestly or helping me avoid something uncomfortable?

Healthy boundaries aren’t meant to remove discomfort, because discomfort is absolutely part of clarity, growth, and real connection.

Remember… Boundaries aren’t about making relationships painless. They’re about making them truthful.

And When we walk in truth, we walk with Jesus…because truth isn’t just something He teaches. It’s who He is.

As we close this series, my hope is that boundaries no longer feel like something to fear or defend, but something to discern with God. Not lines drawn in reaction, but rhythms formed through truth, humility, and love. This journey isn’t about getting it perfect. It’s about learning to walk wisely, staying open-hearted, and trusting that God is faithful to lead us as we keep showing up, one honest step at a time.

Tiptoeing,
Lindsay

** This one was a little lengthy, but I wanted to make sure we closed it up this week. New and exciting things are coming soon!

If Part 3 taught us anything, it’s that boundaries don’t live in theory.
They live in REAL relationships.

And the truth is, the closer someone is to us, the more complicated boundaries can feel.

Marriage. Parenting. Family. Friendships. Church.

These aren’t abstract categories. They’re people we love. They are people who shape our lives and hearts.

So instead of talking about boundaries generally, let’s talk about how they show up with the people who matter most.

Boundaries in Marriage

I want to be honest — I am still new to marriage. Two and a half years in, I don’t feel like an expert in how boundaries should work. I’m learning them in real time, with plenty of moments I’d love to redo.

Sometimes I get defensive.
Sometimes I react too fast.
Sometimes I speak before I really listen.

(If my husband is reading this, His head is nodding with confirmation.)

But I’m learning…

I’m learning that healthy boundaries in marriage aren’t about control, winning, or “proving” maturity. They’re about staying connected without losing who God is shaping each person to be.

Sometimes that means circling back and saying:

“I didn’t handle that well. Can we try again?”

Because without boundaries, one spouse slowly starts carrying everything, or both emotionally withdraw and call it peace.

Paul describes marriage this way:

“Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves.”
(Romans 12:10)

Boundaries aren’t competition to the covenant we made with each other… In fact, they guard it.

Boundaries in Parenting

Right now, parenting for me means learning boundaries through Lilli.

She’s curious, fast, determined, and full of wonder. And most of our boundaries sound pretty simple:

“Lilli, that’s not safe.”
“We don’t touch that.”
“Come back here, baby.”

These aren’t deep philosophical discussions. They’re tiny course corrections — over and over again.

(Candidly, I get a little aggravated because they show me things about myself I didn’t expect. Like, my impatience or control issues)

But what’s cool from this perspective is that these simple boundaries are creating a world that feels safe and consistent. They quietly say:

You are loved.
You are safe.
Someone is looking out for you.

Some days I handle it well. Other days I kneel down, breathe a prayer, and try again.

And there are moments when I still apologize — even though she’s young — because I want honesty and gentleness to exist in our home before she even has the language for them.

Scripture gives parents this guidance:

“Do not provoke your children to anger, but bring them up in the training and instruction of the Lord.”
(Ephesians 6:4)

Right now, for us, that looks like slow words… calm hands… repeated reminders… and choosing presence when it would be easier to rush.

These early boundaries may look ordinary, but they’re shaping her. (And, me too.)

Boundaries in Family, Friendships, and Church

Boundaries aren’t just needed in our homes. They’re needed anywhere relationships and history overlap.

Family

Family is wonderful…and complicated. Old habits cling longer than we expect.

Healthy boundaries don’t erase love. They keep it from getting tangled up in guilt and unspoken pressure. They help us shift from silent obligation to intentional involvement.

Friendships

Good friendships don’t crumble when you set a boundary. They grow stronger.

Boundaries remind me that my heart is valuable, my time matters, and I am allowed to care deeply without trying to fix everything.

A healthy friend isn’t afraid of limits.
They’re grateful for honesty.

Church Community

Church is meant to be a place of belonging and shared life. And yet, ironically, it’s one of the places where people often burn themselves out.

But serving God shouldn’t require losing yourself in the process.

Boundaries in church remind us:

We get to serve, but we also get to rest.

We get to pour out, but we also need to be filled.

They help us carry what God has entrusted to us without picking up everything else along the way.

And that actually allows us to stay present longer — not less.

Ground-Level Takeaways

Boundaries don’t push us away from people.
They allow us to stay with people in healthier ways.

They make space for love that is mutual instead of one-sided.
They keep us honest and grounded.
They leave room for God to work in others, without us trying to play rescuer.

And more often than not, they require humility… because they expose where our motives, fears, and habits get tangled up in our relationships.

II’m still learning. I don’t get this right every day. But I see the fruit when I practice it.

My hope is that, over time, God teaches us how to walk this out gently and wisely with a posture that honors both Him and the people He’s entrusted to us.

Humbly,
Lindsay

Boundaries are easiest to talk about when they stay theoretical.

They get much harder when they touch real people….especially the people we love.

Marriage.
Parenting.
Family.
Church.
Close friendships.

These are the places where boundaries stop being concepts and start becoming choices I have to make in real time… choices that are often made without perfect clarity and rarely without emotion.

Scripture doesn’t ignore that tension, but it does provide some insight..

Paul wrote:

“Carry each other’s burdens…”
(Galatians 6:2)

And just a few verses later:

“…each one should carry their own load.”
(Galatians 6:5)

Real relationships live right there… that space between shared support and personal responsibility.

Boundaries are about clarity, courage, and communication. They help us know when to step in, when not to, when to be present without taking over, and how to stay connected without disappearing.

I’ve seen boundaries heal relationships by creating trust and truth. But I’ve also seen them hurt when they’re used to avoid hard conversations, when they become tools for withdrawal, or when they simply protect personal comfort.

This part of the series isn’t about perfect boundaries.
It’s about honest ones and learning to recognize when they deepen connection and when they create distance.

When Boundaries Heal

Boundaries rarely feel good at first.

Can I get an “Amen”?

They tend to slow things down, bring tensions to the surface, and shine a light on things that were easier to leave in the dark.

Boundaries that heal are not Healing because they made things easier.
It’s because they made things clearer.

Clarity gives relationships something solid to stand on.

Boundaries show us where assumptions have crept in, where responsibility has quietly shifted, and where love is being measured by endurance instead of honesty.

They interrupt unhealthy patterns instead of avoiding them.

For example, they keep me from saying yes while feeling resentful. They stop me from stepping in where I wasn’t invited. And they ask me to speak, instead of silently carrying. (That last one trips me up… a lot.)

It doesn’t always feel kind in the moment, but it often proves to be kindness in the long run.

Boundaries don’t usually heal relationships overnight, but when used correctly, they become one of the ways healing happens.

When Boundaries Hurt

Sometimes boundaries hurt people.

Not because boundaries themselves are wrong, but because they’re used without humility, communication, or care.

I’ve seen boundaries become shields instead of bridges and announcements instead of conversations. I’ve seen them used to avoid discomfort rather than steward responsibility.

And the hardest part is… they often sound reasonable. Sometimes even spiritual.

But Scripture calls us deeper:

“Each of you must speak truthfully to your neighbor.”
(Ephesians 4:25)

Silence is not always maturity. Sometimes it’s avoidance dressed up as wisdom.

Often, what hurts most isn’t the boundary itself, it’s the lack of explanation. One day there’s closeness, and the next there’s distance, but no conversation about why.

Boundaries begin to wound when they are declared one-sidedly, leaving the other person to simply adjust.

That doesn’t feel like wisdom. It feels like dismissal.

Healthy boundaries don’t remove the responsibility to love well.
They deepen it.

Ground-Level Takeaway for Today

Boundaries can heal. Boundaries can hurt.

The difference is rarely the boundary itself.
It’s the posture behind it.

Is it love or self-protection?
Communication or silence?
Humility or control?

As we keep walking through this series, my prayer is that we grow into people who set boundaries the way Jesus lived — with truth, clarity, compassion, and courage — so that love can actually thrive.

TipToeing ,

Lindsay

Next in the series:

Part 4 — Boundaries With the People Closest to Us
Marriage, parenting, family, friendships, church community — and how boundaries show up there in my everyday life.

*Boundary Series will resume in 2026.

Christmas has passed.

The gatherings are quieter.
The calendar is loosening its grip.
And the story, at least publicly, has moved on.

Over the last few days, we glanced at five elements tucked into the margins of the Christmas story: Simeon. Anna. Joseph. Rachel. Nazareth. Each appeared briefly. Each carried weight. And none were explained away.

That was intentional.

Together, these stories show us something Scripture teaches quietly: God’s work does not always arrive with clarity or resolution. Often, it unfolds through recognition, obedience, grief, and long stretches of ordinary faithfulness.

Simeon recognizes the promise and steps back without needing to see what comes next.

Anna recognizes redemption while it is still small and speaks of it only to those already waiting.

Joseph obeys without explanation, moving one step at a time as direction is given.

Rachel reminds us that Christmas does not erase sorrow. Grief is named and allowed to remain.

And Nazareth shows us where it all settles. Not in spectacle, but in ordinary places. Quiet years. Hidden life.

God doesn’t rush the work He plans to stay with.

These stories do not give us instructions as much as they give us posture.

They teach us to recognize what God is doing without trying to figure out how He will do it.
They teach us that some recognitions are meant to be shared with others who are already waiting on God.
They teach us how to obey without demanding clarity.
They teach us how to let grief be named, without needing to fix it right away.
And they teach us how to remain when the story grows quiet.

The days between Christmas and the new year can feel unsettled. In fact, I have a friend who calls this the “week in-between”… You know, the strange stretch of days where we’re straddling two years at once.

It’s usually when we start looking back, trying to make sense of what this past year held. We remember the things that surprised us, the things that disappointed us, the places we hoped would look different by now. Yet, at the same time, we begin to look ahead and wonder what God may have next… and what our part might be in all of it.

And if we’re honest, we want to figure it all out as quickly as possible — to bring resolve to the year behind us and to map out next steps for the year ahead.

But the Christmas story doesn’t hurry like that. It gives us permission not to force meaning, not to rush clarity, and not to solve the future before it arrives.

So maybe this week isn’t about forcing resolutions, but about noticing what God is already doing, and letting our next steps take shape slowly.

If the invitation of this week is anything, it may simply be this:
to remain. To stay present with God in the quiet. To trust that He is still at work even when the story grows still around us.

The Christmas story does not hurry us forward.

It teaches us how to remain.

“But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.”
(Luke 2:19)

Barefoot,
Lindsay

*I’m pausing the boundary series briefly for Christmas.

This short series, Hidden in the Christmas Story, are some of my reflections of quiet moments tucked into the margins of Scripture that I have often passed by.

These are not explanations or applications. Just space to notice where God was working faithfully, sometimes almost unnoticed, as the story moved forward.

Matthew 2:23; John 1:46

Nazareth enters the Christmas story almost as an afterthought.

Matthew tells us that Joseph settles there so that what was spoken through the prophets might be fulfilled: “He will be called a Nazarene.” No prophecy is quoted. No explanation is offered.

Just a place name.

Nazareth is not associated with power or promise. It does not appear in Israel’s great stories. It holds no obvious spiritual significance. Later, when Jesus begins His ministry, the question will be asked plainly: Can anything good come from Nazareth?

Scripture does not correct the question.
It lets it hang.

Joseph brings Mary and Jesus there not because it is meaningful, but because it is ordinary. Safe. Unremarkable.

And that is where Jesus grows.

Years pass in Nazareth without record. No miracles. No sermons. No crowds. Just work, family, obedience, and time.

The story does not linger here. But it does not skip it either.

Nazareth becomes the place where the Son of God learns to walk, to speak, to labor, and to live among people who do not expect much from Him.

Nothing about Nazareth is elevated by description.
It is simply named.

And yet this is where Jesus will be known from.

Not Bethlehem.
Not Egypt.
Not Jerusalem.

Nazareth.

The Christmas story ends not with movement or recognition, but with settling. With roots. With a long stretch of hidden life that Scripture does not narrate.

God does not rush past the ordinary place.

He stays.

Barefoot,
Lindsay

*I’m pausing the boundary series briefly for Christmas.

This short series, Hidden in the Christmas Story, are some of my reflections of quiet moments tucked into the margins of Scripture that I have often passed by.

These are not explanations or applications. Just space to notice where God was working faithfully, sometimes almost unnoticed, as the story moved forward.Okay.

Matthew 2:16–18; Jeremiah 31:15

Rachel does not appear in the Christmas story as a living woman.

She appears as a voice.

Matthew tells us that when Herod realizes he has been outwitted by the Magi, he orders the killing of all the boys in Bethlehem two years old and under. The text is brief. The violence is not described in detail.

Then Matthew does something unexpected.

He reaches back into the prophets and quotes Jeremiah:

“A voice is heard in Ramah,
weeping and great mourning,
Rachel weeping for her children
and refusing to be comforted,
because they are no more.”

Rachel lived centuries earlier. She died giving birth. She never saw Bethlehem. And yet Matthew names her as the voice that carries this grief.

Rachel wept once before when her descendants were taken into exile. Jeremiah gave her words then, and Matthew gives them voice again now.

The birth of Jesus does not prevent this sorrow.
The arrival of the Messiah does not interrupt the grief.

Matthew does not explain this tension. He does not justify it. He does not soften it.

He lets the weeping be heard.

Rachel’s presence in the Christmas story reminds us that redemption enters a world that is still broken. That promise and pain are not neatly separated by chapters. That joy does not erase loss simply by arriving.

Rachel refuses comfort.

And Scripture records that refusal without correction.

The story does not pause to resolve her grief. It moves on—to Egypt, to Nazareth, to quiet years unseen.

But Matthew does not let us skip this moment.

Rachel’s voice is woven into the story so that we remember: the birth of Jesus happened in a world where children still died, mothers still wept, and evil still resisted God’s work.

And God entered it anyway.

Rachel’s grief is not explained away.
It is remembered.

And Matthew lets that stand.

Barefoot,
Lindsay

*I’m pausing the boundary series briefly for Christmas.

This short series, Hidden in the Christmas Story, are some of my reflections of quiet moments tucked into the margins of Scripture that I have often passed by.

These are not explanations or applications. Just space to notice where God was working faithfully, sometimes almost unnoticed, as the story moved forward.

Matthew 1:18–25; Matthew 2:13–15, 19–23

Joseph is present throughout the opening chapters of the Christmas story, but he never speaks.

Matthew tells us what Joseph does, not what he feels. We are not given his prayers, his questions, or his internal struggle. We are shown his obedience.

Before Jesus is born, Joseph receives a dream. He is told not to fear taking Mary as his wife. He does as he is told.

After Jesus is born, Joseph receives another dream. He is told to flee to Egypt. He leaves that night.

Later, another dream. He is told to return to Israel. He goes.

Then one more warning. He settles in Nazareth instead.

Joseph’s life unfolds through instructions given one at a time. Scripture offers no overview of what God is doing - only direction, followed by response.

Joseph does not speak in these moments.
He wakes.
And he acts.

Matthew repeats the same phrase more than once: Joseph did what the angel of the Lord commanded him.

Joseph becomes a husband, a father, a refugee, and a settler…without explanation from the text about how any of this felt. The story moves forward because Joseph responds when God speaks.

Joseph does not receive recognition for this. He is not quoted later. He does not appear in Jesus’ ministry. His role fades quietly from the page.

But the child lives.

And Matthew lets that connection stand.

Joseph’s obedience is not described or defended. It is simply recorded.

And then the story moves on.

Barefoot,
Lindsay

Share

*I’m pausing the boundary series briefly for Christmas.

This short series, Hidden in the Christmas Story, are some of my reflections of quiet moments tucked into the margins of Scripture that I have often passed by.

These are not explanations or applications. Just space to notice where God was working faithfully, sometimes almost unnoticed, as the story moved forward.

Luke 2:36–38

Anna appears even more briefly than Simeon.

We’re told she is a prophetess, the daughter of Phanuel, from the tribe of Asher. We’re told she was married for seven years, and then widowed. And we’re told she is very old.

Luke does not fill in the years between. He simply says she did not leave the temple, but worshiped night and day, fasting and praying.

That is the only summary we are given for decades of life.

Anna arrives as Simeon is speaking. She does not interrupt him. She does not add commentary. She gives thanks to God, and then she speaks.

She speaks about the child to all who were waiting for the redemption of Jerusalem.

Anna does not address Mary and Joseph directly.
She does not bless the child.
She does not speak over his future.

She speaks outward, toward those who are already waiting.

Luke is careful with his words here. Anna does not explain who the child will become. She names what the child already is: redemption.

Before the teaching. Before the miracles…Before the cross.

Anna recognizes redemption while it is still small enough to be held.

Her faith has been shaped by loss and long obedience. She has waited through years Scripture does not narrate. And when the promise finally arrives, she does not keep it to herself.

Her witness is simple and precise. She tells those who have been waiting what she has recognized.

Then the story moves on.

Luke gives us no record of what happens to Anna afterward. No continuation. No resolution.

Just recognition of the child.
And proclamation to those who were waiting.

Her presence is brief.
Her faithfulness remains.

And Luke lets that be enough.

Barefoot,
Lindsay

*I’m pausing the boundary series briefly for Christmas.

This short series, Hidden in the Christmas Story, are some of my reflections of quiet moments tucked into the margins of Scripture that I have often passed by.

These are not explanations or applications. Just space to notice where God was working faithfully, sometimes almost unnoticed, as the story moved forward.

Simeon

Luke 2:25–32

Simeon appears briefly in the Christmas story, and then he’s gone.

No backstory we can trace. No follow-up. No continuing role.

Luke tells us only what matters… Simeon was righteous and devout, and he was waiting for the consolation of Israel. The Spirit had made him a promise—that he would not die before seeing the Messiah.

When Mary and Joseph bring Jesus into the temple, Simeon recognizes Him.

There is no sign recorded.
No announcement.
No hesitation.

Simeon takes the child in his arms and speaks, not in anticipation, but in recognition:

“Now, Lord, you may dismiss your servant in peace,
according to your word.”

This is not a prayer for comfort. It is a statement of completion.

Simeon does not ask what comes next. He does not attach himself to the story moving forward. He does not seek proximity, influence, or explanation.

He bears witness to what God has fulfilled and then releases the moment.

Luke places Simeon here intentionally. Before Jesus teaches or heals. Before anyone knows what this child will become. Simeon’s role is not to interpret the future, but to confirm the present: God has done what He promised.

This moment is not about what comes next. It holds, and does not rush forward.

Simeon names what is true and then steps back.

There is something striking about that restraint. In a story where we often rush toward impact and outcome, Simeon shows us a faith that does not need continuation. He is faithful without needing to see the rest of the story unfold in his lifetime.

His witness is enough.

And Luke lets it stand without commentary.

Barefoot,
Lindsay

We often talk about boundaries as if they’re a modern necessity. You know, something we reach for once life gets overwhelming or relationships get complicated. But boundaries didn’t start because of burnout or dysfunction. And they certainly didn’t come from therapy language or personality types.

They show up much earlier than that.

Before boundaries ever appear in our relationships, they appear in Scripture. In fact, they are woven into the way God creates. And when Jesus steps into human life, He doesn’t undo that pattern. He embodies it.

Boundaries in the Beginning

Before we look at how Jesus lived with boundaries, let’s step back to the Old Testament.

In Genesis, God creates by speaking, observing, and giving things distinction.
Light and darkness.
Sky and sea.
Land and water.

God doesn’t just bring things into existence. He gives them space. He gives them place.
And He names them.

Again and again, creation unfolds as God speaks, sees what is good, and gives it definition.

None of that feels restrictive. It feels ordered. Intentional. Life-giving.

Even in the garden, freedom and boundaries exist side by side:

“You may freely eat of every tree…”
“…but not this one.”
(Genesis 2:16–17)

That boundary wasn’t about control. It was about clarity and was part of relationship. He was showing humanity how relationship with Him works: freedom within loving boundaries.

And, fun fact, he even gave himself boundaries!

He binds Himself to His own word.

• He cannot lie (Numbers 23:19)

• He does not change (Malachi 3:6)

• He keeps covenant (Deuteronomy 7:9)

• He magnifies His word above His name (Psalm 138:2)

These are holy boundaries.

God limits His actions to His nature and His promises. He is faithful, consistent, truthful, and unchanging. His boundaries reveal His character.

So when Jesus comes—God manifest in flesh (John 1:14; Colossians 2:9)—and lives with intention, rhythm, and discernment, He isn’t introducing something new. He’s showing us what God looks like up close.

Jesus Chose Purpose Over Pressure

Jesus doesn’t model boundaries as distance or detachment. He models them as alignment. He lived deeply present, deeply compassionate, and deeply obedient to the Father without living at the mercy of pressure or demand.

Crowds wanted more miracles. Religious leaders wanted proof. Even His closest followers tried to redirect Him.

When the crowds begged Him to stay, Jesus said:

“I must preach the good news to other towns also, because that is why I was sent.”
(Luke 4:43)

Purpose—not pressure—set His course.

When Peter tried to protect Him from suffering, Jesus responded plainly:

“You are not mindful of the things of God, but the things of men.”
(Matthew 16:23)

He wasn’t being harsh. He was aligning himself (and Peter) to His heavenly purpose

Jesus Created Space Without Disappearing

Jesus was deeply present—and He regularly withdrew.

“Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed.”
(Luke 5:16)

He wasn’t avoiding people. He was connecting with His Source and teaching us that life needed rhythm.

Jesus understood that constant availability wasn’t healthy.
So, He stepped away to pray. He rested when His body needed rest. He protected His connection to the heavenlies.

Boundaries weren’t about loving less. They were about loving well.

Jesus Said No Without Guilt

Jesus said no.

He didn’t heal everyone in every place.
He didn’t answer every challenge.
He didn’t perform signs on demand.

Sometimes, He simply walked away:

“Jesus hid Himself and went out of the temple.”
(John 8:59)

His no wasn’t fear-based. It was discerning.

Jesus Honored Relationship Without Losing Himself

Jesus made space for people. He noticed the overlooked. He paused for interruptions that mattered.

But He didn’t offer equal access to everyone.

He lived with layers of relationship—
crowds, followers, close companions, and time alone with God.

When Bartimaeus cried out, Jesus didn’t assume. He asked:

“What do you want Me to do for you?”
(Mark 10:51)

He didn’t reduce people to their need and didn’t take responsibility that wasn’t His to carry.
And He didn’t force timing that wasn’t ready.

And when the rich young ruler walked away, Jesus let him go.

Boundaries didn’t limit His love.
They gave it shape.

Ground-Level Takeaways

Jesus’ boundaries weren’t about avoiding people; they were about obeying God.
He stayed connected, but clear about where He was being led.

His Life and Boundaries remind us

• Love can be compassionate and discerning

• Rest is obedience

• Presence requires rhythm

• Not every need is ours to meet

• Not every burden is ours to carry

And clarity allowed His love to remain faithful, free, and fully surrendered to the Father.

So… If God creates with boundaries, and Jesus lived with boundaries, then boundaries aren’t about distance. They’re about alignment.

They help us love with wisdom instead of exhaustion. They help us stay rooted in God’s will instead of pulled by every demand.

In the next part of this series, we’ll look at how boundaries show up in real relationships… where they heal, where they hurt, and where they need to be reexamined.

Walking humbly,
Lindsay

If you’ve noticed, most conversations about boundaries focus on the external stuff:
what to say yes to, what to decline, what to walk away from. But the more I’ve looked at Scripture and my own patterns, the more I’m realizing that healthy boundaries start long before the moment you open your mouth or draw a line.

Boundaries begin with identity. They grow from a posture of stewardship and a clear understanding of what God actually asked me to carry and what He did not.

And honestly, because I haven’t always lived this out well, I’ve had to form a definition that makes sense in real relationships:

A boundary is a God-honoring line of responsibility that helps me recognize what is mine to steward and what is not so I can show up in relationships with wisdom and love instead of guessing or reacting.

When that part gets blurry, every external boundary feels inconsistent or emotional…maybe even reactionary. So, before we talk about how boundaries show up in relationships, we need to talk about what they are and what they are not.

What Healthy Boundaries Are Not

A lot of misunderstandings happen when unhealthy behaviors get dressed up to look healthy. I’ve done some of these myself, so no judgment here. But it helps to call them out clearly.

They are not walls.

Walls shut people out and shut conversations down.
Healthy boundaries do not isolate. They clarify how connection can happen.

They are not avoidance with a wise sounding or spiritual label.

Going silent, shutting down, or disappearing is not a boundary. Most of the time, that is overwhelm pretending to be maturity.

They are not control.

If a “boundary” is being used to punish, pressure, or push someone toward a certain behavior, it is not a boundary. It is control.

They are not permission to stay comfortable.

Boundaries do not give you a free pass to disconnect. They are meant to support connection, not replace it.

They are not one-sided.

A boundary honors the image of God in me and in the other person. If only one person’s dignity is being protected, something is off.

What Healthy Boundaries Actually Look Like

1. Boundaries Begin with Biblical Stewardship

Proverbs 4:23 says:
“Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.”

I used to think that meant “protect yourself.”
Now I see it as stewardship. It means being responsible for the inner life God entrusted to me.

Scripture reinforces this in several ways:

• “Each one should carry their own load.” (Galatians 6:5)

• “Each of us will give an account of ourselves to God.” (Romans 14:12)

• “Watch your life and doctrine closely.” (1 Timothy 4:16)

Together they point to a simple truth…
What happens in me and what flows from me are my responsibility before God.

Through that lens, boundaries are not about distance. They are about honoring what God entrusted to us and guarding that space with wisdom instead of fear.

2. Boundaries Require Honest Self-Examination

Scripture is surprisingly direct about self-awareness:

• “Search me…” (Psalm 139)

• “Let us examine our ways…” (Lamentations 3:40)

• “Examine yourselves…” (2 Corinthians 13:5)

Healthy boundaries begin with honesty. Not the polished answers we give others, but the truth we admit to God and quietly acknowledge within ourselves:

• I’m stretched too thin.

• I said yes for the wrong reason.

• I’m avoiding a conversation.

• I’m carrying something that isn’t mine.

Honest self-examination does not weaken boundaries. It strengthens them. It keeps them grounded in truth instead of emotion.

3. Boundaries Clarify What’s Mine to Carry and Why It Matters

In Galatians 6, Paul gives two instructions that seem contradictory but are really categories.

• “Carry each other’s burdens.” (Galatians 6:2)

• “Each one should carry their own load.” (Galatians 6:5)

A burden is a weight no one should carry alone: a crisis, a heartbreak, or a season that is heavier than normal.

A load is everyday responsibility: the part of life God designed for our own hands.

Healthy boundaries help us tell the difference. They help us show up without rescuing or taking on weight God never asked us to carry.

They also help us examine our motives:

• Am I stepping in because God is leading me or because I’m afraid to disappoint someone?

• Am I helping out of love or out of guilt or habit?

• Am I reacting because I feel responsible for everyone around me?

And on the other side:

• Am I pulling back because I truly need rest or because I’m avoiding discomfort?

• Am I calling something a boundary when it is actually hurt or fear?

• Am I not showing up because it is wise or simply easier?

This kind of honesty often leads to conversations like:
“I’m here for what is genuinely heavy, and I trust God to give you strength for what is yours.”

While on the flip side, that same honesty brings the invitation to confront the moments we don’t show up - not because it was wise, but because it was inconvenient, uncomfortable, or safer to pull back.

Healthy boundaries will call out both over-functioning and avoidance.

4. Boundaries Reveal What Actually Matters to You

Boundaries do not just show where your limits are. They show what you value.

Jesus said,
“Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” (Matthew 6:21)

That is not just about money.
It is about where your time, energy, and emotional presence go.

Every yes and no tells a story:

• What I make room for reveals what matters.

• What I repeatedly sacrifice shows what I’m trying to hold together.

• What I protect reveals what I treasure.

• What I avoid exposes where I’m afraid or hurting.

Sometimes that clarity is encouraging.
Sometimes it is confronting.
Either way, it is helpful.

Boundaries do not shame you for what they reveal. They simply invite you to notice and realign.

5. Healthy Boundaries Produce Fruit, Not Fallout

One of the simplest ways to evaluate a boundary is to look at the fruit it produces.

Jesus said,
“Wisdom is proved right by her deeds.” (Matthew 11:19)

Healthy boundaries tend to produce:

• clarity

• peace

• emotional breathing room

• honest connection

Unhealthy or unclear boundaries often leave behind:

• resentment

• overwhelm

• confusion

• distance

Boundaries were never meant to create fallout. Boundaries are meant to bear good fruit—in you, in the people you love, and in the relationships you hold dear.

If you’re doing a fruit check right now, and you’re not seeing what you’d like…This does not mean you are failing. It simply means something needs attention. When the fruit is off, it is an invitation to pause, adjust, and realign.

Ground-Level Takeaways

Healthy boundaries are not about shutting people out.
They are about gaining clarity on what God has entrusted to you and what He has not.

They begin inward, in honesty, motive, and stewardship.
Then they move outward into how you show up and love others.

They are not barriers. They are pathways to living wisely and sustainably, with a heart that stays open without being overwhelmed.

As you practice them, you do not become harder.
You become steadier. Clearer. More available in the ways that matter.
More aligned with what God is actually asking of you.

And isn’t that the goal?

Walking humbly,
Lindsay

Subscribe now

Share

If there’s one word that’s both wildly overused and deeply misunderstood in our current culture, it’s boundaries.

(Grace is another one of those words, but that’s a blog for another day.)

Depending on who you’re talking to, boundaries can sound like a battle cry or a breakup line. A step toward healing or a hard shutdown.

Some people use boundaries like brick walls…thick, tall, built for survival. While others ignore them altogether with no pause, no protection, just a wide-open yes to everything and everyone.

If you’ve lived long enough (and like me), you’ve probably swung between both extremes: the “never again” wall and the “I can handle it” openness.

The truth is, both, in their own way, leave you empty and resentful.

Somewhere between those two is what I’m calling the sacred middle. It’s a space marked by wisdom, presence, and Spirit-led discernment.

A Candid Note

If I’m being completely honest, this entire series was sparked by frustration.

Recently, I watched someone use “their boundaries” in a way that protected their own comfort and shut others out. It was disguised as kindness, but it left no room for honest communication or mutual input.

And it hurt.

Not just me, but many of us.
It left us feeling unimportant, unloved, and pushed aside.

It reminded me that boundaries—when misused—can become weapons instead of wisdom or excuses instead of stewardship.

That moment lit something in me.

First, a righteous indignation that rises when something hurts people in a way Jesus never intended.
And second, a desire to understand what healthy boundaries really look like…
the kind that honors God, others, and your own heart without damaging the hearts around you.

Why This Series?

Because I don’t want to live in fear-driven isolation, or use “boundaries” in a way that ends up hurting people I love.

And I don’t want to live as an overextended, overcommitted version of myself either.

I want to live connected.
Present.
Spirit-led.
Rooted in love.
Clear about what is mine to carry—and what is not.

And as for why a series and not a dramatic Facebook post?

Because this needs more than a three-sentence vent with a passive-aggressive emoji.
This deserves reflection, Scripture, and space to grow.

And boundaries aren’t just healthy habits…They’re spiritual practices to help us.

When used correctly, they help us love without losing ourselves, know how to show up without being consumed, enable us to give generously without burning out, and rest without guilt

Truly, they help us walk the way Jesus walked -
fully present, deeply loving, and never ruled by demand or pressure.

The Perforated Line

Think of healthy boundaries as a perforated line—structured but breathable.

Firm enough to give definition, but soft enough to let love through. Not a wall. Not the absence of a wall. A steady, Spirit-led line you can open and close with wisdom.

That’s the posture we’ll explore together in this series.

What Dr. Cloud Taught Me

Honestly, can anyone talk about boundaries without bringing up Dr. Henry Cloud or Dr. John Townsend? Or is that just me???

Two of the illustrations they used have followed me around ever since I first heard them:

1. The Fence & Gate

You are responsible for the yard inside your fence—your heart, your time, your emotions, your decisions. But your fence has a gate.

A healthy boundary isn’t about keeping the world out;
it’s about stewarding what God entrusted to you.

2. The Yippie Dog

In the book, they talk about the yippie dog that barks at the fence nonstop—demanding attention, energy, and emotional reaction.

We all have yippie dogs: urgent pressure, loud expectations, guilt, fear, neediness, chaos. But we don’t have to pet everything that barks at us.

Nor do we have to bark at everything that pets us... (funny typo that I decided to keep, because it’s not inaccurate)

What You Can Expect in This Series

In the weeks ahead, we’ll explore what healthy boundaries actually are. We’ll look at how Jesus modeled boundaries through connection, purpose, solitude, and compassion. We’ll talk about how boundaries show up in real relationships and how they can strengthen connection or create hurt and distance.

And, if my brain can wrap itself around it all, I’ll include some practical guidance for living out Spirit-led boundaries every day.

Why This Matters Spiritually

Healthy boundaries are holy.
They teach us stewardship.
They create space for connection.
They make compassion sustainable.

They help us discern the Spirit instead of reacting to every voice and need that comes our way.

Proverbs 4:23 says:

“Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.”

Guarding your heart isn’t about self-protection… It’s about preserving the work of God within you. Diligently keeping your heart tender enough to love deeply, but providing enough structure to love wisely.

A Final Thought as We Begin

If your walls have been too rigid, you’re welcome here.
If your boundaries have been too loose, you’re welcome here.
If you’re learning, stumbling, trying again—welcome.
I am too.

My prayer is that this series gives you permission to honor how God designed you, encourages you to submit yourself to His process of shaping you, and helps you step into a life marked by connection, growing capacity, and the steady leading of His Spirit.

Treading lightly,
Lindsay

P.S. Click here to purchase the book I mentioned by Dr. Henry McCloud and Dr. James Townsend

Default Mode

We all have a default mode. You know, those automatic reactions that show up before we even realize we’ve slipped into them.

The sharp tone that surprises even us.
The shutting down when we feel misunderstood.
The late-night overthinking spiral no one else sees.
The urge to manage, fix, or control.
The inner dialogue that assumes the worst before it imagines the best.

These patterns feel familiar because they’ve lived in us for so long. They feel natural… almost like part of our wiring.

But the more Jesus works in me, the more I see that “normal” doesn’t always mean transformed.

And that’s where I find myself more often than I’d like to admit… Jesus is forming something new in me, but when life presses in, my old instincts still try to take the lead.

It’s the collision between my default self and the healed self that He is shaping.

The Difference Between “Normal” and Healed

For a long time, I didn’t question my reactions—I just labeled them as “that’s just how I am.” Normal. Natural. Part of my personality.

But the Holy Spirit gently shows us that not everything familiar is actually from Him.

Some of what I called “normal” were just old wounds wearing a different outfit. Some things I thought were “just how I’m wired” were really survival modes I never grew past. Some of what I named “my personality” were really unhealed places that learned how to function.

What’s normal isn’t always healed. And what’s healed usually feels anything but normal at first.

Healed looks like slowing down when I’d rather rush. Listening instead of defending. Trusting instead of controlling. Stopping instead of reacting. Responding with grace when retreating feels easier.

None of that comes naturally.
Not at first.

Often, healing feels new, tender, intentional… and sometimes clunky and awkward.

That’s the difference:
Default is automatic, but Healing is chosen.

Healing is the Spirit teaching me a new way to live—one response at a time.

When Pressure Reveals What’s Still Unhealed

It’s usually not the peaceful moments that show me where God is still working.
It’s the moments I’m stretched, interrupted, overwhelmed, or carrying more than I expected.

And pressure has a way of pulling old instincts to the surface. Not to shame me, but to show me where Jesus is still healing me.

“Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.”
— Matthew 12:34

Whatever rises up isn’t random—it’s revealing. It shows me the places still in need of renewal. It’s not condemnation. It’s revelation.

God will never expose the old to embarrass us, but He will bring it up so He can transform it. Pressure doesn’t create our defaults—it just makes them harder to hide. And surprisingly, that’s grace. God saying, “Let’s heal this too.”

Rewriting the Internal Script

If I’ve learned anything, it’s that you can’t delete a default by trying harder. Willpower can interrupt a moment, but it can’t transform a pattern.

Only the Spirit can do that.

“Be renewed in the spirit of your mind… put on the new self.”
— Ephesians 4:23–24

Renewal isn’t a one-time event. It’s a steady reshaping of how we think, respond, and see ourselves in light of Christ. It’s choosing truth over the old narratives we believed, replacing knee-jerk reactions with Spirit-led responses, and learning to pause long enough to hear God speak into a moment.

Little by little, the inner script changes - not instantly, but faithfully.

There’s a holy rewiring happening beneath the surface where old instincts are unraveled, and new ones are formed that are anchored in Jesus.

“Deleting Default” simply looks like letting the Spirit rewrite things in real time.

The Holy Pause

Somewhere between my instinct and my response, there’s a moment…a small, sacred pause I never used to notice.

It’s quiet. It’s quick. But it’s there. It’s the breath-long space where I feel the familiar reaction rise up… and something inside me whispers, “Wait.”

That whisper isn’t willpower. It’s the Holy Spirit.

It’s just Long enough to choose the healed version of me instead of the default one, to pray, “Lord, what are You forming in me here?”, and to let Him lead my words instead of my emotions. (And sometimes I blow right past if I’m not intentional in my choice.)

“Walk by the Spirit…”
— Galatians 5:16

Walking implies steps, not leaps. Process, not perfection.

Every time I slow down instead of reacting, or listen instead of defending, or choose trust instead of control, I’m practicing a new way of living. And each small choice becomes one more line deleted from default and one more line written into the new self that He is forming.

Practicing the New Self

Healing isn’t proven in big, dramatic moments.
It’s revealed in the small ones. A soft answer instead of a sharp one. A deep breath instead of rushing ahead. Staying present when shutting down feels easier. Choosing grace when distance would feel safer. Letting God lead instead of letting fear lead.

These choices don’t always feel natural.
Honestly, they feel awkward—because this is new, and the old reactions have had more practice.

But that’s the nature of healing. It’s practiced before it’s perfected.

“Put on the new self.”
— Colossians 3:10

Putting something on takes intention. It requires participation.

And the more I practice these new ways of responding, the more they begin to feel less like work
and more like who I’m becoming. Slowly, the new starts becoming more natural than the old. Grant it… Not without stumbles or days where default tries to take over again.

But even those moments don’t undo the work God is doing. They just remind me there’s more to practice and more grace to walk in.

God’s Patience With Our Process

And what’s liberating is that God is not frustrated with my process (even if I am).

He isn’t shocked by my old reactions. He isn’t disappointed when default shows up again. He isn’t shaking His head when I slip into patterns I thought I’d outgrown.

He is patient. He is steady. He is near.

“He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion.”
— Philippians 1:6

Transformation is His work. Responding in obedience is mine.

When my default rises again, it doesn’t disqualify me. It doesn’t reset me. It doesn’t erase the growth. It simply shows me where God is still gently working.

I hope you’ll dare to start deleting those old defaults and let Christ keep shaping the healed you He already sees. It won’t always feel easy or smooth, but it really is worth it. And today, friend, I’m praying His Spirit meets you gently and leads you into deeper healing.

Still walking barefoot on This Holy Ground,

Lindsay

Subscribe now

Share

Lilli is learning to walk.

At first, she’d only take steps if she was holding one of our hands. The moment her little fingers wrapped around mine, or Kaleb’s, something in her changed. There was a visible shift. She’d lift her chin, straighten that tiny back, and it’s like she suddenly believed she could do anything. Sometimes she’d even try to take two steps at once, like she was in a hurry to grow up. When she’s holding our hand, it’s as if she’s saying, If you’re with me, I can do this.

Now she’s trying on her own. No hands, no helpers. Just courage, curiosity, and those wobbly knees. She braces herself, arms stretched out for balance, and wears the most priceless expression. It says something between Look what I’m doing! and Oh dear… look what I’m doing. It’s this mix of pride and panic, delight and determination all at once.

I’ll tell her softly, even though she doesn’t really understand yet, “One step at a time, baby.”

And every time I say it, it seems to echo right back to me.

Because this is what it feels like when God calls us into something new. You know, something we haven’t quite learned how to do yet. At first, when His hand feels close, we take big, confident steps. We believe that if He’s near, we can do anything. There’s a boldness that comes from His nearness.

But then comes the moment He loosens His grip. Not to leave us, but to let us grow. It’s not distance; it’s development. He knows we’ll stumble, but He also knows we’ll get steadier each time we stand again.

“The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord: and He delighteth in his way.
Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down: for the Lord upholdeth him with His hand.”
— Psalm 37:23–24

Something I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to is how, even after walking with God for years, He still brings me back to the beginning. Back to that wobbly, unsure place where I have to learn how to walk again.

A new season.
A new calling.
A new stretching.
A new kind of trust.

Suddenly, the steps that once felt sure now feel shaky. I know His voice, but everything around me feels unfamiliar. The ground shifts a bit beneath me, and I have to remember how to steady my heart all over again.

Learning to walk again, after you thought you already knew how, can feel humbling.
It turns out, learning to walk with Him is something I’ll never outgrow.

Every deeper call begins with smaller steps.

Each new season requires a fresh kind of dependence.
Faith doesn’t look like running ahead. It looks like slowing down enough to remember Who’s leading and whispering back, “Okay, Lord… one step at a time.”

“For we walk by faith, not by sight.”
— 2 Corinthians 5:7

When I see Lilli take those brave, tiny steps, I’m reminded that this is how we all grow.
Not by sprinting ahead, but by trusting the One who walks beside us.
Step by step. Fall by fall. Moment by moment.

He isn’t asking me to have it all figured out — and oh, how this overthinker tries.
Still, somehow, He’s patient with my pace, and that’s where I find peace.

Walking barefoot,
Lindsay

Part of the ongoing Learning to Walk reflections — small lessons in faith, one step at a time.

Share

Subscribe now